


Variations on a Theme

by ImpishTubist



Series: Variations on a Theme [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Discrepancy, Asexual!Sherlock, Incidence of Homophobia, Language, Mild Sexuality, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-26
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 03:52:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were permutations of a set, compromised and negotiated; arranged and re-arranged until they found all the ways that fit. Variations on a theme, Sherlock sometimes liked to say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Adagio

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sidney Sussex (SidneySussex)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SidneySussex/gifts).



> Written as a Christmas gift for Sidney Sussex.

\----

_Adagio_ : at ease

\----

It took less than two days for Sherlock to wrap the case Lestrade’s team had been agonizing over for two weeks. 

If one were to break it down, it was thirty minutes of Sherlock berating Lestrade for waiting so long to come to him; twenty hours of John watching Sherlock pace (because he was awake and, therefore, so was John); twelve hours John spent at the clinic while Sherlock sat on the couch, thinking; eight hours of running all over London; thirty heart-stopping seconds where John and Sherlock nearly plunged to their deaths, and two minutes huddled in an alley, out of sight, each clinging to the other and grateful he was alive.

This was followed by a twenty-minute reveal in front of Lestrade and his team, and, at last, the case was finally wrapped.

“Chinese?” Sherlock asked, as NSY emptied and they prepared to take their leave.

“Starved.” John put his hands on his hips, surveying the mostly-empty room. “I don’t suppose Greg will want us to bring him anything?”

Sherlock shook his head. “He doesn’t eat for eight to twelve hours after cases involving children are closed, depending on how gruesome the death was. I believe, for this one, it’s likely he won’t eat again until tomorrow morning.”

“Fantastic,” John muttered, rubbing his shoulder. He had put undue strain on it earlier today during their chase of the suspect, and it was taking longer than usual to bounce back. He moved to leave; Sherlock followed. “Well, we should probably -”

“Where do you two think you’re going?” a voice boomed from behind them. John winced and shared a look with Sherlock, stopping dead in his tracks; even the detective looked slightly guilty. Lestrade came up behind him, file in hand, looking stern. “My office, now. We need to go over the final details of the case before I can let you go.”

He nodded to one of his sergeants as he passed, the only other person working this late at the Yard. Everyone else had cleared not long ago.

Lestrade breezed into his office. Sherlock and John followed mutely, and when they were both inside he closed the door and locked it. 

“What the hell were you thinking?” he asked in a low voice. He strode over to the desk and dropped the folder onto it before crossing his arms over his chest. The desk stood between him and the other two; a defensive move, John suspected. Lestrade’s voice always got softer the angrier he got, and he preferred to be left alone at times when his fury was too great. Barring that, he put physical objects between himself and the focus of his anger, as though it would keep him from lashing out.

“Lestrade -” Sherlock started coolly, hands clasped behind his back. Both he and John had remained standing, despite the two chairs sitting in front of Lestrade’s desk. 

“No, what the _bloody hell_ were you thinking?” he hissed, cutting Sherlock off. “That was idiotic, Sherlock, even by your standards. And what the hell, John? It wasn’t enough that he almost died; you wanted to join in the fun, too?”

“Hey, it wasn’t like that!” John snapped.

“You’re overreacting,” Sherlock put in and oh, that was the _wrong_ thing to say.

“Overreacting?” Lestrade said in a dangerous undertone. “ _Overreacting?_ Fucking hell, Sherlock, I almost lost you today - both of you! What part of this is overreacting?”

“Greg, it’s fine -”

“It’s most certainly _not_ ,” Lestrade snarled, and John found himself taken aback at the vehemence of his words. “I’m not entirely sure why you two are so bloody _eager_ to remove yourselves from the planet, but I can say that I really don’t appreciate it. I’d rather _not_ be the one left behind, yeah? _Jesus_...”

“Greg.” John glanced over his shoulder. The lone sergeant was gone; the rest of the place was deserted and dark. He came around the side of the desk, putting a hand on Lestrade’s elbow.  “ _We’re_ fine. Focus on that for a moment.”

Lestrade drew a breath; held it. 

“You were lucky. Both of you.”

Sherlock finally heaved a sigh. “I fail to understand your preoccupation with events that did not happen. We could have been killed, yes, but it didn’t happen and focusing on what might have been is pointless.”

“Maybe for you,” Lestrade said softly. 

“I’m sorry we worried you,” John said, moving his hand to Lestrade’s waist. He brushed a thumb along his hipbone. “So’s Sherlock.”

“I’m not -”

“You _are_ ,” John said firmly, not looking at him. “But we worry about you, too, Greg. Sherlock’s not the only one with a dangerous job.”

“Are you asking us to stop?” Sherlock put in. Lestrade snorted, and John resisted rolling his eyes. Typical Sherlock; always worried about the work.

“I’d no more ask you to stop then you would ask me.” Lestrade sighed. “I’m also as willing to give up the work as you are. I’m not - I don’t even know what I’m asking, because to request you to be more careful would be to ask you to change, and I can’t do that to you.”

He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “It’s just - I was only just starting to think I might grow old with you two. Well - _older_.”

“We will,” John assured. Sherlock frowned.

“John, you can’t promise that.”

“I can promise that I intend to grow old with him, yes,” John said, finally looking over his shoulder at Sherlock. “I can promise that we don’t do what we do just to spite him, or because we’re looking for a quick death. Unless there’s a reason why I shouldn’t be telling him that?”

They stared one another down, until finally Sherlock looked away, focusing on the laptop sitting on Lestrade’s desk. 

“No,” he said finally. “No, no reason not to say.”

“Good.” John gave Lestrade’s hip a squeeze and dropped his hand. “Back to ours tonight?”

Lestrade hesitated a moment, and then nodded. 

John pulled him in for a kiss. “It’s been a long week. You could do with some food, and some sleep.”

Lestrade snorted, and pressed his lips to John’s forehead. He then went over to Sherlock and rolled up the detective's sleeve in order to get at the nicotine patch, which he pulled from the exposed flesh and tossed in the wastepaper bin. 

“I’m not the only one,” he murmured, rolling down Sherlock’s sleeve and brushing his lips along the detective's brow. Sherlock had been subsisting on caffeine and nicotine patches for the past five days; now that the case was over, he was going to crash quickly. They needed to get him back to Baker Street. “Come on, sunshine. Home.”

Sherlock fell asleep in the cab, head resting on Lestrade’s shoulder. John sat across from them, his knees knocking against Lestrade’s, and under the cover of darkness they clasped hands. They couldn’t do this in public, not normally, but the nighttime was different. It made them bold; made it easier to get away with things they could not do in broad daylight. 

\----

“What’s Cambodia’s capital?” John asked as he tapped a pen absently against his teeth. He was sitting on the bed, legs outstretched before him and crossed at the ankles, leaning against the headboard. Lestrade was stretched out next to him, flat on his stomach, Sherlock straddling the backs of his thighs. 

“How many - ah!” Lestrade broke off with a hiss as the detective’s fingers worked at a knot of tension in his back, melting it with his strong musician’s fingers. 

“Phnom Penh,” Sherlock supplied, and Lestrade rolled his eyes. 

“Doesn’t know the Earth goes ‘round the sun, but he knows the bleedin’ capital of Cambodia,” he griped. 

“Not my issue that you only keep irrelevant data in your brain,” Sherlock said, frowning in concentration as he found a particularly tight knot of muscle just at the base of Lestrade’s neck. 

“And just what part of Phnom Penh is relevant to your life?”

“It was relevant just now, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, for -” And Lestrade rolled suddenly, tipping Sherlock off his back and clambering on top of him, grabbing his wrists and pressing them into the mattress so that he was rendered immobile. Sherlock blinked at him, momentarily stunned at suddenly finding himself staring up at the ceiling rather than down at Lestrade’s back. “C’mere, you.”

Lestrade dipped his head and captured Sherlock’s lips in a slow kiss. He parted his lips; Sherlock’s followed automatically, and he brushed the tip of his tongue across Sherlock’s before drawing away. He placed a kiss over both Sherlock's eyelids, and then straightened. 

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” Lestrade said, moving off of Sherlock’s hips and squeezing between him and John, who was still occupied with the crossword, though there was a smile playing on his lips. 

“I’ve been so informed,” Sherlock said, a tad breathless, and he worked his way into a sitting position. Lestrade chuckled and kissed his shoulder. John filled in the last of the puzzle and squeezed Lestrade’s knee. 

\----

Lestrade woke one night to a hand on his chest, eyes flying open and consciousness returning immediately. It was a seamless shift from the images of the nightmare to the waking world, and he knew in an instant that what felt like hours of terror had only been moments, and imaginary ones at that. 

It didn’t keep his heart from knocking wildly against his chest, nor did it prevent the thin sheen of cold sweat that had broken out across his forehead. Those were all too real. 

He turned his head to look at Sherlock and gave him a shaky nod of thanks. John, on his other side, was still very much dead to the world. His sleeping patterns were unpredictable at best. Some nights all it took was a whisper of wind to wake him; other times, the equivalent of an army tank rolling down the street wouldn’t even make him twitch. 

“All right?” Sherlock asked in an undertone. Lestrade nodded.

“Am now. Thanks.”

“It was the pool.”

Lestrade suppressed a sigh; no use denying it.

“Yeah.”

If one were to ask Sherlock, he’d have said that the turning point for the three of them was the Dower case last March, when John had taken a nasty dive into the Thames while in pursuit of a suspect. Sherlock had doubled back with only half a second of hesitation - and he still felt a pang of remorse over that half-second, which he was unaccustomed to feeling -  and gone after him, Lestrade on his heels. They spent the rest of the afternoon holed up in Baker Street, trying to get up the doctor’s dangerously-low body temperature because John abhorred hospitals nearly as much as his flatmate. 

They’d never caught the suspect; the case was still open. 

Sherlock hadn’t minded, which was odd.

Neither had Lestrade, which was even stranger. 

By the end of that week, they had torn asunder every barrier that had until then had defined their relationships to one another - colleagues, flatmates, friends, pub-night acquaintances - and started to build something new. Something that, over a year later, was still going strong - even if they didn’t quite know what to call it. 

But if one were to ask John, he’d have said that it started much earlier, back when Moriarty was just becoming a threat, though before they had fully comprehended just how much of a danger he was. There had been a moment in Lestrade’s office, when the pink phone rang and Sherlock stepped out to answer it, that John’s eyes had locked with the Detective Inspector’s. Lestrade had been unguarded in that brief second, and the waves of emotion that washed across his face - terror, concern, a fierce protectiveness - had mirrored John’s own feelings toward his mysterious new flatmate. 

John knew then that he’d found an ally, one very like himself - willing to follow Sherlock blindly and without question; willing to stand at his side even if they didn’t quite know why they were doing it, only that it needed to be done. 

And if one were to ask Lestrade, he’d have said that the catalyst for it all was the pool. He’d been careless that April night, plunging into the fire and rubble before the proper rescue teams had arrived, digging alongside the trained professionals, hearing nothing but the blood pounding in his ears. He’d been so focused on finding John and Sherlock that he hadn’t noticed his bloodied fingers, scraped nearly to the bone, and nor had he noticed the wobbling remains of the building that threatened to come down around their heads. There was only _Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock_ , and he needed to find them. 

It frightened him to think what he might have done had he not found either of them alive. 

They’d both had to go to hospital (Sherlock for much longer than John, in the end), and Mycroft Holmes had arranged for them to be in the same room. And when they’d finally awoken, it had been to find Lestrade seated between their beds, each of his broad hands covering one of theirs. 

Neither Sherlock nor John had pulled away. 

Lestrade’s dreams were still dotted with the remains of that night, even over a year and a half later. Images of fire and blood and the too-still forms of his partners haunted him, though at the time Sherlock had been a maybe-friend and questionable colleague, and John had been an acquaintance at best. But Lestrade now viewed that night at the pool through the filter of his current relationship to the two men - for how could he not? - and it sickened him to think that for the slightest wrong placement of a beam, or if Sherlock had landed just two inches to his left, or if John dived to the left instead of the right...

Cool fingertips gripped his wrist, and Lestrade was snapped from his musings. He turned his head to look at Sherlock, two glittering points of light in the dark of the room. 

“Stop,” Sherlock commanded. Lestrade nodded. 

“Trying,” he rasped, his voice still heavy with sleep.

“Try harder,” Sherlock said, and Lestrade gave a sad smile even though he knew the man couldn’t see. And then gangly limbs looped through his and Sherlock pressed up against his side, his warm breath filling Lestrade’s ear and his fingertips slipping under Lestrade’s shirt to stroke the patch of skin just under his ribcage.

“Okay,” he whispered, bringing his hand up to curl around Sherlock’s elbow. “I’ll try harder. Promise.”

“Good,” Sherlock murmured, and for once was asleep again before Lestrade.

But that was all right, really, because Lestrade had Sherlock’s breath skimming his cheek and his other hand sought out John’s back, feeling it expand and deflate, and those two truths were enough to keep the nightmares away for the rest of the night. 

\----

Sherlock and John were out on the pavement, traipsing through the slush and around the patches of ice, heading toward Angelo’s. They were going for a late lunch - or, if John was honest with himself, an early dinner. 

“...and at that point, it was clear to me that the victim had been murdered by his brother,” Sherlock said, finishing a recollection of one of his earlier cases. John gave a low whistle, and made a mental note to have him repeat the story when they were back at Baker Street so that he could commit it to the blog. 

“Unbelievable,” he said, and hooked his arm through Sherlock’s as they walked. “And how -”

But he didn’t get any further than that, for a passerby violently knocked shoulders with him and he stumbled into Sherlock’s solid form. At first John thought it was an accident, but he heard a huff of laughter and a muttered, “Poofs,” and then the sound of feet scurrying away before he’d had the chance to turn around. 

He shook his head at the retreating figures once he’d regained his balance. Two teen boys, from the looks of the backs of their heads, and no taller than he was himself. Young ones, then, most likely. 

John turned around again, deciding it wasn’t worth the pursuit; Sherlock did not. He continued to stare after the boys, even after they threw amused looks over their shoulders and then disappeared around a corner. 

“Sherlock,” John said softly, tugging on his arm. “C’mon, let’s go.”

“John -”

“Ignore it. It’s gonna happen. And it’s not gonna change how we - all of us - feel about one another, is it? Save your energy for the more important things.”

Sherlock turned to look at him. 

“Like lunch?” he ventured, deadpan. John grinned. 

“Yeah. Like lunch.”

\----

There was a weary tread on the stairs, a slow plod of feet up the seventeen steps to 221b. A moment later, a key slid into place John entered the flat. He caught sight of the two men on the sofa, and gave a soft huff of breath as he shut the door.

“You’re a bloody genius, you know that?” he said in quiet amazement.

Lestrade glanced up from his book, frowning in confusion. “Sorry?”

John nodded at his flatmate, who was slouched low on the sofa, cheek pressing against Lestrade’s shoulder and arms folded tightly across his chest.  “Him. I can never get him to sleep when it’s just the two of us. Dunno how you manage it.”

“Well, if I ever figure it out, I’ll let you in on the secret.” Lestrade set his book aside, careful not to jostle the sleeping Sherlock, and asked, “What time is it?”

“Nearly one.”

“Christ.” He watched John toe off his shoes and shed his jacket. “They kept you late tonight.”

“Didn’t really have much choice.” John sat down on Lestrade’s other side, and the older man wrapped an arm around his shoulders, tucking him against his side. “s’always like this right before the holidays. Parents get panicky about the sniffles because it might prevent Junior from going to grandma’s; children get excited and rowdy as each day brings them closer to Christmas. It’s inevitable.”

“Children are insufferable,” Sherlock rumbled, and Lestrade laughed. 

“Welcome back to the world of the living, sunshine,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the dark curls. “You’ve been out for hours.”

“That,” Sherlock sniffed, “is hardly my fault.”

“No?” 

“No,” he said. “I’m not the one with the abnormally-comfortable shoulder.”

“But you _are_ the one who insisted on staying up for ninety-six hours straight,” John pointed out. “I’ve a feeling you’d have fallen asleep on the banister if given half the chance.”

“And speaking of sleeping...” Lestrade dislodged himself reluctantly from the two men and got to his feet. “One in the morning is far too late for an old man like me. I’m going upstairs.”

“Yeah,” John sighed, and Lestrade held out a hand, helping him to his feet. “I’ll join you. Sherlock?”

“m’fine here,” the detective said, waving them off. John and Lestrade shared a glance and then each of them grabbed Sherlock under the armpits, hauling him to his feet. 

“I don’t think that was a request.”

“Evidently not,” Sherlock said, attempting to look disapproving and failing miserably. “I suppose, if you insist -”

“And we do.”

“ - then I could spare a few hours from the work and indulge you.”

“How gracious of you,” John said dryly, and led the way upstairs. 

\----

_"Et il y en avait vingt?"_ Lestrade asked.  


 _“Non, il y en avait trente. Fais attention,”_ Sherlock said impatiently, pacing and waving a hand in the air.

__  
“Je pensais que tu avais dit vingt.”   


“I _know_ I said thirty. Right, John?”  
                 
John looked up at the sound of his name. “Sorry?”  
                 
Sherlock let out an explosive sigh. “Have you been listening to _anything_ I’ve said? Honestly, John. You know how I despise repeating myself.”  
                 
“Well, you wouldn’t have to if you’d been speaking English,” John said, amused.  
                 
Lestrade lifted his gaze from his laptop screen. “Did we do it again?”  
                 
“Yeah,” John smirked.

They did that sometimes, the fluid switch from English to French. Lestrade grew up with the language spoken at home, thanks to his grandmother; Sherlock was tutored in it as a child. Usually Lestrade was good about catching it after a few words and gently steered them back to English, but sometimes they got too wrapped up in the conversation - too wrapped up in one another - and forgot there were others in the room. Other times they simply didn’t realize they’d made the switch, so natural was it to both of them.  
                 
“Christ,” Lestrade cursed softly. “Sorry, John.”

John waved off the apology, still smiling. 

“It’s fine. It’s...kind of sweet, actually.”

Sherlock’s lip curled. _“Sweet?”_

“Yeah,” John said, chuckling now. “You two are fucking _adorable_ sometimes.”

\----

Sherlock was always _Sherlock_ to them, except in rare instances when he was _sunshine_ to Lestrade and _git_ to John. Only three people alive on the planet today called John _Johnny_ , and Lestrade was one of them. And Lestrade was always _Greg_ to John when they weren’t on a case. To Sherlock, he was _Detective Inspector_ or _Lestrade_ more often than not, but in moments of high affection or half-sleep he was _Greg_. And _Gregory_ only slipped past Sherlock’s lips in moments of deep pain or anguish - Lestrade had only heard it used twice, in fact, and both times in hospital, though the patient had been different each time. 

Lestrade was the most likely out of all of them to use endearments, dropping _sunshine_ and _love_ and, once, _sweetheart_ , which had caused Sherlock’s always-steady hand to slip in the middle of an experiment and nearly set the flat on fire. John teased him mercilessly about it until he realized that he, too, was picking up on the habit, and _love_ started dropping right and left when it was just the three of them together. Sherlock had threatened to kick the both of them out once he realized what was happening. 

But then Lestrade had snagged him about the waist and John had taken Sherlock’s face in his hands, brushing their lips together, and Sherlock had ceased his complaints almost at once. 

\----

John woke in the middle of the night, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Lestrade was plastered against his back, an arm wrapped around his middle; Sherlock was stretched out next to him, one arm flung above his head, fast asleep. 

_Christ_ , was it warm. John tried to negotiate his way out of the tangle of blankets without disturbing his companions, and succeeded only in pushing them past his chest. His limbs were tingling and he was tired, so tired, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that followed a particularly difficult case, because when Sherlock skipped out on sleep so did he. Only Sherlock had trained his body - willingly - to go days on end without rest. John had yet to get used to living such a brutal life, even after two years in the detective’s company.

But there hadn’t been a case, not one that commanded his attention so much, and they had all fallen into bed before midnight, which was a rare occurrence. 

He shifted position as much as he was able, but it did nothing to ease his mind. He couldn’t push aside his thoughts for long enough to drift off again, and they were inconsequential things - had he remembered to turn off the stove? Did they have enough milk to last the week? Would he need to stop at the shops after work tomorrow - or, rather, today?

He became aware of lips brushing against the back of his neck, and for a moment wondered if he was dreaming. But then the pressure increased, and the lips parted and the tip of a tongue brushed his skin as Lestrade murmured, “You all right?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Sorry. Just woke up.”

“s’okay.” Lestrade’s arm tightened around him. John swallowed, feeling as though someone had placed cotton in his mouth. He was being assaulted by smells from all corners - his own sweat; Sherlock’s expensive shampoo; the musk of Lestrade, a well-worn scent of ink and files and tobacco. 

The lips returned to his neck, but with purpose this time. They pressed to the spot just behind his ear, teasing the patch of skin that always made his breath hitch and heart sputter in his chest. Lestrade parted his lips, stubble whispering across John’s skin, and murmured something. John, distracted by the hand that had just slipped under his waistband, didn’t hear it above the pounding of blood in his ears. 

They didn’t usually do this with Sherlock in the bed. He had no interest in sex, neither in performing nor receiving, and acts like this were usually done at Lestrade’s flat - not because Sherlock minded, really, but because Lestrade and John did. But sometimes the other two were two exhausted to care, and Sherlock would roll over and leave them to it, one ear trained on the (curious, intriguing, _gorgeous_ ) noises that spilled from his partners’ lips and committing them to his hard drive. Now and again he was content to let one of them rock into his hand, cataloging the look on John’s face (lips parted, breaths stunted, eyes shut) or memorizing the taste of Lestrade’s skin while John’s deft fingers worked him open.

He enjoyed kissing, though (something about endorphins or eurphoria - John hadn’t paid much attention to his reasons), and now a mouth pressed to John’s as Lestrade’s hand brought him to completion. Sherlock swallowed John’s groan, kissing him through his release, and when John had regained his breath he reached around for Lestrade, but his hand was intercepted. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Lestrade whispered as Sherlock’s lips moved to his forehead. “Go to sleep, Johnny.”

And that seemed like a wonderful suggestion, so he did. 

\----

John was in the kitchen, searching through the cupboards for a pot that Sherlock hadn’t utilized yet for one of his experiments. He’d come home late from the surgery, and as Sherlock and Lestrade were going out tonight, dinner was something he’d have to scrounge up for himself. He didn’t mind, normally - in fact, he rather enjoyed cooking, though his meals were mediocre at best. But after the shift he’d had today - well, takeaway was sounding more and more appealing. 

He heard the front door open as he shut the final cupboard in defeat.

“Hi, Greg,” John called, recognizing Lestrade’s voice as the man nearly tripped over one of Sherlock’s shoes and let out a muffled curse in retaliation. John glanced around the corner, and then raised an appreciative eyebrow at the sight that met his eyes. 

“Well,” he said approvingly, “you make a pretty good case for attending the opera.”

“Oh, shut it,” Lestrade grumbled, stepping fully into the flat and shutting the door behind him.

“No, I’m serious, Greg.” He was finding it very difficult to tear his eyes away from his lover, who had shed his usual work suit for a sharper - and more flattering - evening one. “You look fantastic.”

Lestrade snorted, but offered him a smile. “Just wait’ll you see Sherlock, then. I take it you’ve never seen him in actual going-out wear?”

“No, can’t say that -” John stopped dead as the door behind Lestrade opened again, and Sherlock emerged from the stairwell. “Holy fuck.”

Lestrade laughed aloud at that, and Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow. 

“Eloquent, John,” he said dryly, and handed a pair of cuff links to Lestrade. “If you would, Greg.”

“Right, yeah.” Lestrade put the cuff links through Sherlock’s sleeves while John continued to gape. He wore the suit like a second skin. It had been perfectly tailored to hug his lithe form at the hips and shoulders, and cut so as to accentuate his long legs and slim torso. “There.”

“Almost makes me wish I was going with you two,” John said, shaking his head at the striking pair his partners made. 

“I’m sure Mycroft could be called upon to for an extra ticket,” Sherlock said. John shook his head, laughing. 

“I did say _almost_.” He straightened Sherlock’s collar affectionately, and gave Lestrade a kiss. “I’ve an early shift tomorrow, so I probably won’t be up when you get back.”

“We’ll be quiet,” Lestrade assured him, and then turned to Sherlock. “Ready?”

Sherlock gave a brisk nod as he tugged on his coat, and they were off. 

\----

“Come on, Sherlock, _really_?” John said incredulously as the movie on the television hit a slow point and he could tear himself away for a few minutes to address his flatmate. 

“It baffles me that this continues to surprise you, John,” Sherlock said irritably, flipping through the large tome that currently was occupying his attention. “You know I have no use for popular culture.”

“Yeah, well, we’re remedying this,” John said. “I can’t believe you’ve never seen _Star Wars_.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John relented.

“All right, yeah, I _can_ believe it. But you really should, Sherlock. You’d enjoy it.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“ _I’d_ enjoy it.” John played the final card available to him. “I haven’t seen you for more than five minutes at a time this week; it’s been mad. C’mon. It’s two hours of your life, and then you can go back to looking at bees or whatever.”

Sherlock heaved a long-suffering sigh and set aside his book. He joined John on the sofa, propping his feet up on the low table sitting in front of it, and folded his hands in his lap. John grinned triumphantly and turned up the volume on the television once more. 

“Now, you’ve missed about half an hour of it already, so let me explain...”

\----

It was Wednesday morning by the time Lestrade left the Yard one frigid night, exhaustion pooling at the back of his mind and dragging him down. The drive to Baker Street was blessedly brief, and he managed to get there unharmed and still in relative control of his senses. He didn’t normally sleep over at the flat on Tuesday nights, but going back to his own place right now was unappealing at best, for no particular reason than the fact that he just wanted to fall asleep with Sherlock’s hand tucked in his own and John’s warm weight pressed to his side. _One of those days_ , he supposed - an empty sentiment that said nothing, but apt all the same.

He trudged up the steps and let himself into 221B with his key, unsurprised to find that all the lights had been turned off except for the one in the kitchen. 

“You’re up late,” he observed, glancing around the corner to see Sherlock sitting at the table, perched so that he could peer through his microscope.

“I’m always up late,” was the reply; Sherlock didn’t turn around. 

“I was just trying to make conversation.” Lestrade pressed a kiss to the back of the bent head. “John in bed?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t suppose I can convince you to join us.” Lestrade placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, rubbing lightly. The detective straightened, passing a hand over his eyes, and eventually leaned into the touch, the back of his head pressing against Lestrade’s stomach. 

“I have a case,” he said finally. “A private client.”

“So I gathered. Well, come to bed if you get the chance.” Lestrade kissed the top of Sherlock’s head and added, in an undertone, “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

He was just on the verge of sleep half an hour later, John tucked against his chest, when the door whispered open and then shut just as quietly. There was a rustling as Sherlock stepped out of his trousers, and a moment later he slid under the covers on Lestrade’s other side.

“Thank you,” Lestrade murmured, and Sherlock kissed him to sleep.  

\----

John leaned on the door frame, watching as Sherlock paced frantically and Lestrade scrubbed a hand through his perpetually-unkempt hair. He sipped from his mug, humming in assent or disagreement as Sherlock flung words at him, knowing that that was all the detective needed. He didn’t require input or theories; he just needed a sounding board. So John indulged him, and Lestrade kept his wild mind on track, and Sherlock puzzled his way through the case.

They could do so much together, John mused. They were _capable_ of so much, the three of them. Nothing short of _brilliance_.

But that could only take place within the confines of their flat. 221b was their sanctuary, where they could be free and beautiful and _right_ together. They didn’t exist outside of it; they couldn’t. And it pained him, because all he wanted to do was shout it out, for everyone to hear.

_Here, these are my partners! I am theirs and they are mine. And we are_ wonderful.

“What?” Lestrade said abruptly, and John was jolted from his thoughts. He realized that he had been staring absently at the DI.

“Nothing,” he said, small smile tugging at his lips. “Just...you. Us. Bit mad, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade said, grinning. “Bit mad. Bit good, though, too.”

“I wouldn’t say that, Inspector,” Sherlock said coolly from the wall, where he was marking something on a large map of Asia they had hastily hung a few hours ago.

“Oh?”

“No.” He paused, glancing over his shoulders at the two of them, and then the facade cracked and his eyes crinkled in a smile. “I’d say _great_.”

\----

They were permutations of a set, compromised and negotiated; arranged and re-arranged until they found all the ways that fit. Variations on a theme, Sherlock sometimes liked to say. John and Sherlock got their nights alone at Baker Street, working together or separately. Lestrade and Sherlock had their times working together on a case, because John wasn’t always available. And Lestrade, to John’s endless amusement, delighted in taking Sherlock out - to the theater, to the opera, to the kind of cultural things John wasn’t able to abide with the frequency that Lestrade did. John was able to take Lestrade out in turn - oftentimes to the pub for some drinks and a match, then back to Lestrade’s for a night together. 

And the times they all had together, be it at a crime scene or 221B - those were when they had truly had a chance to _shine_. They were at ease with one another; slotted together as cogs in a gear. Sherlock was sharp and wild, but grounded by Lestrade’s steadying hand and John’s quiet patience. John was kept alive by Sherlock’s sheer _madness_ , which infused his life with the very thing it had been lacking, and kept sane by Lestrade’s consistency. And Lestrade needed them both - Sherlock to teach him how to live; John to remind him that there was still good to be found in the world.

It worked with two. 

But it was better with three.    


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of the French dialogue:
> 
> "Et il y en avait vingt?"    
>  (There twenty of them?)
> 
> “Non, il y en avait trente. Fais attention.”     
>  (No, there were thirty. Pay attention.)
> 
> “Je pensais que tu avais dit vingt.”    
>  (I thought you said twenty.)
> 
> -Many thanks to Sidney Sussex, who helped with the translation (though at the time didn’t know what it would be used for!). Yes, I’m shameless like that. If any corrections need to be made, though, please let me know.


	2. Intermezzo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, John, and Lestrade go their separate ways for Christmas, and then come together to celebrate the holiday in their own unique way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One scene in this installment appeared on my Tumblr some months back, so if it seems familiar, then that's why.

\----

 _Intermezzo_ A short connecting instrumental movement in an opera or other musical work.

\----

“Sherlock, what are you doing for Christmas?” John asked. He’d just glanced at the calendar on his laptop, and saw that they were only three weeks away from the holiday and no one had breathed a word about it yet. He realized also that this was technically the first Christmas they would be spending as...well, whatever it was they all were to one another. He could hardly count last Christmas, when what they had was still so new and uncertain that it barely had withstood the stress of the holidays and the serial killer who surfaced around New Year’s.

But now they were more comfortable around one another, and the relationships were more concrete, and he felt this warranted _some_ sort of recognition. And it would be a far more enjoyable holiday than the one he would get at home with his parents and sister. 

Sherlock paused in his perusal of the bookshelf and glanced over at John, hands on his hips. 

“I’ll be at Mother’s,” he said finally. “It seems I’ve skipped out on it for too many years.”

“Be good to see your mum,” Lestrade mused idly from the sofa, and flipped the page of his paper. 

“I think we have differing definitions of the word _good_.”

“What about you, Greg?” John asked. 

“Going to my sister’s. I’ll be back by Boxing Day. What about you?”

“Same,” John said with a nod. “I’ll be out at my parents’. So...are we all going to be back by the 26th?”

Sherlock and Lestrade gave murmurs of agreement. 

“Great. So...the three of us can celebrate then. How does that sound?”

Sherlock sighed and sat down next to Lestrade on the sofa with more force than was strictly necessary; the cushions bounced and his elbow jostled Lestrade’s paper. “It makes little sense to me that the majority of this holiday should be spent with those we would rather not spend it with, while time with those who _are_ important must be...negotiated.”

Lestrade wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “I think that’s probably the kindest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

Sherlock glowered at the suggestion but said, “That would make the most sense, John. Boxing Day it is.”

Lestrade agreed, and then disentangled himself from Sherlock as his mobile started to go off. 

“When will you be leaving?” John asked Sherlock as Lestrade slipped from the room. Sherlock slumped in the sofa, folding his hands on his chest and staring at the ceiling. 

“The morning of the twenty-fourth, around the same time you depart. I saw the train ticket that you bought.” He lifted his head to look at John. “You do realize that Mycroft could have arranged transportation for you. And provided funds.”

“I’m not accepting any sort of money from your brother,” John said firmly. “Not now, not ever. We really need to stop having this discussion, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally as Lestrade came back into the room, looking grim.

“Sorry, lads,” he said softly. “I’m needed down at the Yard.”

He grabbed his jacket, kissed them both, and left amid further murmured apologies. 

“Looks like it’s just us then, tonight,” John said. “What d’you want to do?”

“Well, there’s this experiment I’ve been meaning - “

“ _No_ , Sherlock.”

“It will be perfectly painless.”

“No.”

“You won’t even know it’s happening.”

 _"No."_

“I’ll tell you where I hid the snake I slipped into your room this morning.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“...dammit.”

\----

Lestrade woke before dawn one morning to a persistent tongue brushing over the pulse-point in his neck and cool fingertips pressing into his side.

“Sherlock?”

“Mm.”

“...Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“I don’t - that’s probably not a - Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“Saving.”

“...sorry?”

Sherlock sighed and propped himself up on his elbows, fixing Lestrade with the same look he got at crime scenes when he couldn’t follow Sherlock’s deductions. Its severity was diminished, however, by the sleep-mussed hair and bleary, newly-woken blue eyes that met his own. “You heard me perfectly well; I’m not saying it again.”

“I don’t understand, though.”

“I’m adding you to my hard drive.” Sherlock ducked his head and pressed a kiss to the side of Lestrade’s neck.

“I see.” Sherlock’s tongue swirled in the hollow of his throat, and he squeaked out, “No, actually, I don’t.”

“What’s he doing now?” John mumbled from Lestrade’s other side. His cheek was pressed into Lestrade’s shoulder, and he didn’t bother opening his eyes.

“Saving me.”

“Oh.” John gave a tremendous yawn and rolled over, his back to the other two. “Yeah, he does that. Be glad he’s doing it here and not out in public.”

“That was only the one time, John.”

“Doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.”

“Don’t pretend that you didn’t like it.”

John twisted his head around, cracking open an eye and attempting to glare at his flatmate. It failed miserably. “Yeah, all right, I did. Shut it.”

“I’m still confused,” Lestrade put in weakly as Sherlock’s mouth returned to places it _really_ shouldn’t have been. 

“You’ll get used to it,” John mumbled after a moment, tumbling quickly back towards sleep.

“I supp - oi, sunshine, watch it!”

Sherlock grinned up at him. “Problem?”

“Yeah, you’re gonna have one on your hands if you keep that up!” Lestrade said desperately, trying to sound firm but losing out badly to aroused. “And - uh - you know, I don’t want -”

“Relax, Lestrade,” Sherlock said smoothly. “It’s a normal bodily reaction. And quite fascinating, I must admit. And it will hardly be a problem, since that’s what you have John here for.”

John gave a drowsy salute.

“He’s not - I don’t just keep him around for the sex, Sherlock!”

“Don’t you?” John attempted a pout. “And here I was, thinking that I was important to you.”

Lestrade shook his head. There was no way they could expect him to keep up with this conversation at this hour of the morning.

And then Sherlock returned to his _saving_ , and Lestrade promptly forgot what it was they were talking about.

 **  
\----  
**

John was hunting through the cupboards in the kitchen for the ever-elusive sugar when he heard footsteps approach from the living room.

“John, what time’s your train tomorrow?”

“Er.” John paused for a minute, attempting to recall. “Eight in the morning.”

“D’you want a ride?” Lestrade leaned against the door frame, stirring his coffee. John ran a hand through his hair, thinking.

“Don’t you have to leave for your sister’s?”

“Well, yeah, but it’s on the way. And it’s a bit of a drive, anyway. I want to get going early.”

John shut the cupboard, finally accepting that they were most definitely out of sugar, and reached for his tea. He’d have to make do with honey for now. 

“I s’pose...yeah. If it’s not too much trouble.” 

“Of course it’s not.” Lestrade rolled his eyes and went to go sit on the sofa; John joined him a moment later. 

“Don’t suppose you’ve heard from Sherlock all day.”

“No.” John shook his head. “He was gone when I woke up; wasn’t here when I got back from the clinic.”

“Maybe Mycroft kidnapped him from Bart’s,” Lestrade suggested. “In order to ensure that he actually goes home for Christmas.”

John thought for a moment. “Is it strange that that’s actually a distinct possibility?”

“Or perhaps,” a voice said from the landing, and a moment later the door swung open and Sherlock stepped through, “he was busy with _your_ murder case.”

“Oh, don’t pretend it’s a chore for you,” Lestrade said, amused, as Sherlock whipped off his scarf and tossed it over the back of a chair before striding into the kitchen. 

“Sherlock, what time are you leaving tomorrow?” John asked. 

“Mycroft is sending a car at nine,” Sherlock replied as he came back into the living area, nose wrinkled as though he smelled something foul. He strode over to the bookcase and started pulling down dusty tomes, flipping through them, and then discarding them on the table upon deciding that they were of no use. 

“Anything we can help you find?” Lestrade asked dryly.

“No, your involvement would only be a hindrance,” Sherlock said distractedly. 

John reached for the remote while Sherlock continued his search and, after a moment’s negotiations, he and Lestrade settled on a marathon of James Bond movies. 

Sherlock sniffed disdainfully at their choice and went into the kitchen; they retaliated with a running commentary of everything he was missing in the movies. 

He got them back later that evening with some well-placed eyeballs in the fridge. 

John couldn’t have imagined a better way to start the holiday.

\----

John was up the next morning, as usual, before his companions. Sherlock, when he willingly slept (and he did so, sometimes even more than willingly, when John and Lestrade were with him), did so for hours. It astounded John, really, how long the man could sleep. He had a tendency to drape himself over both of his bed companions, too, and thereby ensured that they stayed with him on days when he was feeling particularly lethargic. He’d trapped them in the bed through the morning one Saturday, limbs everywhere, a massive and gangly blanket that Lestrade and John had finally slipped out from under around eleven in order to go search for some breakfast. Sherlock had finally stirred three hours later and wandered downstairs, disheveled and accusing, looking thoroughly put out at having to wake up alone in the bed. 

And then Lestrade had kissed him, and his indignation seemed to melt away. Lestrade’s kisses had that effect; John could attest to that.

John slipped out of the bed and pulled on a jumper over his pajamas, casting a final glance over his shoulder at his companions. Lestrade was on his back, Sherlock’s head pillowed on his chest. He had both arms wrapped securely around the detective, and Sherlock’s hand was on his chest, his fist curled into Lestrade’s shirt. They’d discovered that about Sherlock early on - despite his outward hostility, the detective actually quite enjoyed being held. 

John and Lestrade were only too happy to indulge him. 

John was in the kitchen when Lestrade woke an hour later. His army rucksack was sitting by the door, ready to go, and he called out a warning so that Lestrade wouldn’t trip.

“You’re up early,” Lestrade greeted, kissing him warmly. “And packed already.”

“Bad habit,” John said. “Both of them, actually. Coffee?”

He often teased Lestrade about his addiction to the sludge, but would never deny him it. There was very little, actually, that he could deny Lestrade. 

He leaned against the sink, offering Lestrade a mug. The DI, looking grateful, walked over to take it from him; when he got close enough, John snagged him about the waist and drew him in for a lingering kiss. When they broke apart, Lestrade raised an eyebrow at him.

“You’re certainly domestic this morning.”

John’s eyes flicked to the ceiling. Lestrade followed his gaze and groaned. 

“Mistletoe?” he grumbled good-naturedly, pressing his lips to John’s again. “If you wanted a kiss, Johnny, all you had to do was ask.”

“More fun this way.” John slipped his fingers into Lestrade’s belt-loops and pulled him close again.

“m’never gonna get my coffee, am I?” Lestrade whispered against his mouth. 

“I just want to make sure we get good use out of it,” John said practically. “Besides, you can help me plot how to get Sherlock under this.”

“I suppose there are worse ways to spend a morning,” Lestrade decided, and John shut up him with another kiss.

\----

To: Sherlock Holmes; Greg Lestrade  
From: John Watson

Subject: (none)

Arrived at my parents' house about half an hour ago. Train ride was all right; slept for the majority of it. Harry and Clara will be arriving this afternoon, so it’s just me until then. 

Thought I had more to say than that. Hope your travels went well.

-John

  
To: John Watson  
From: Sherlock Holmes

Subject: Re: (none)

Is updating one’s partners of one’s every movement another conventional aspect of relationships?

-SH

  
To: Sherlock Holmes  
From: John Watson

Subject: Re: (none)

Yes.

  
To: John Watson  
From: Sherlock Holmes

Subject: Re: (none)

In that case, I have also arrived at my intended destination. The temperature is 3 C and, needless to say, there isn’t any snow on the ground. I am staying in my old room, Mycroft is still overweight, and fratricide is still illegal (unfortunately). There are also half a dozen dead mice in the fridge back at the flat. I acquired them this morning after you left; do be sure not to disturb them should you arrive home before me. It’s a vital experiment.

-SH

  
To: Sherlock Holmes  
From: John Watson

Subject: Re: (none)

You know what else is unfortunately illegal? Murdering one’s flatmate.

  
To: John Watson  
From: Greg Lestrade

Subject: Re: (none)

Sorry to be responding so late. I only just got a chance to get away. Got to my sister’s around noon; we had a late lunch and took some time to catch up. Spent some time outside after that; niece challenged me to a snowball fight and I lost in a spectacular fashion. 

By the way, have you heard from Sherlock? He sent me a text a few hours ago - something about not touching his mice. Do we _have_ mice?

-G

\----

 _Mice are an experiment. In the fridge. He said not to touch them if we beat him home on the 26th._

 _Was wondering what he meant by that. Thanks, John. Will avoid fridge at all costs. Duly noted._

\----

 _Picture Message  
To: John Watson  
From: Greg Lestrade  
This is the view from the front door of my sister’s house. Approx. 3 cent. of snow._

 _Picture Message  
To: Greg Lestrade  
From: John Watson  
Beautiful. There’s not nearly as much snow here, as you can see. I’m envious._

 _You’ll get your snow yet._

 _I hope so. Happy Christmas Eve, Greg._

 _And you, Johnny._

 _\----_

 _What happened to the diet?_

 _Please stop texting me under the table while we’re trying to eat dinner. It’s childish._

“Would you prefer I question your decision to have dessert out loud, then?”

“I don’t need to justify my actions to you, Sherlock.”

“No, but you should perhaps justify your actions to your _waistline_. I don’t think it appreciates the abuse.”

“Boys!”

“My apologies, Mummy.”

“Sorry, Mother.”

 _  
\----  
_

 _Picture Message  
To: The Git; Greg Lestrade  
From: John Watson  
Christmas morning in the Watson household. Mum went all-out on the tree. Thought you might find it amusing. Hope you two are well. Happy Christmas._

 _Picture Message  
To: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson  
From: Greg Lestrade  
Here’s ours. Not much to look at now that Kate’s torn through her presents. She was up at dawn. Thought I was going to be able to sleep in this holiday. Ha._

 _Picture Messages (3)  
To: John Watson; G. Lestrade  
From: Sherlock Holmes  
I fail to see the point of this, but I will indulge you two. Mother has three Christmas trees - one for the dining room, one for the parlor, and one for the front yard. They are put up by staff the first of December, and removed on Epiphany._

\-----

“Uncle Greg!”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Come play outside with me?”

“What do we say, Kate?”

“Sorry, mum. _Please_ will you come outside with me?”

“Of course.”

\----

 _  
Bored - SH  
_

 _  
Happy Christmas to you, too, git.  
_

 _  
Still bored - SH  
_

 _  
Why not bother John, then?  
_

 _  
He’s not answering. - SH  
_

 _  
I see. So I’m your backup entertainment?  
_

 _  
I admit, the plan is a bit flawed. - SH  
_

 _  
Also: still bored. - SH  
_

 _  
How’s your holiday been? And don’t say boring.  
_

 _  
Insufferable. - SH  
_

 _  
Well, you get points for creativity there, I suppose.  
_

 _  
How is your sister’s? - SH  
_

 _You want to know how my holiday is?_

 _  
Isn’t that what it means to be in a relationship? I was led to believe you are supposed to care about the mundane aspects of the other person’s life. - SH  
_

 _  
I’m not sure if that was an insult or not, so I’ll just say that the holiday has been good. Kate’s getting big. She was five last time I saw her. Seven now. Can’t quite believe it. We’ve spent most of the holiday outside in the snow. She loves it.  
_

 _  
You are inordinately fond of your niece, Lestrade. - SH  
_

 _  
One day, you’ll understand. When you have nieces and nephews.  
_

 _  
That is highly unlikely. - SH  
_

 _  
Mycroft will probably never have children, and I know that I will not. -SH  
_

 _  
Did you ever desire children? - SH  
_

 _  
I suppose I did, at one point.  
_

 _  
Do you resent our current arrangement because it prevents that possibility? - SH  
_

 _  
God, where is this coming from? No, I never said that.  
_

 _  
Look, I’ll email you later. Sitting down to lunch now. But no. I don’t resent it.  
_

\----

“John, have you seen my glasses?”

“No, mum.”

“I’ll have to ask your father, then. Would you come help me set the table? I don’t know _where_ your sister’s gotten off to...”

“Sure. Which dishes did you want to use?”

“The ones from your grandmother. Yes, those; thank you, Johnny.”

 _  
\----  
_

 _  
Happy Christmas, John.  
_

 _  
Thanks, Greg. Happy Christmas. Family treating you well?  
_

 _  
Too well, I’d say. I think I’ve eaten my weight in food, and we haven’t even gotten to Christmas dinner yet. How about yours?  
_

 _  
Usual Watson Christmas. Harry’s picked two fights with mum and Clara left in a fury about an hour ago. I’m holed up in the study with dad. Riding out the storm.  
_

 _  
I’m so sorry.  
_

 _  
It’s all right. Well, it’s not, I suppose, but we manage. Sorry, I didn’t mean to dump on you.  
_

 _  
It’s what I’m here for, right? Look, I’ll call you later tonight. How’s that sound?  
_

 _  
Sounds wonderful.  
_

 _  
\----  
_

 _  
Happy Christmas, Sherlock.  
_

 _  
The same to you, John. - SH  
_

 _  
Are you well?  
_

 _  
Yes. Are you? -SH  
_

 _  
Yeah. Love you, you know.  
_

 _  
I do. -SH  
_

 _  
\---  
_

“Hello?”

“Happy Christmas, John. Again.”

“Happy Christmas. God, it’s good to hear your voice.”

Lestrade chuckled. “That bad?”

“No, it’s not - it’s not _bad_. It’s just -” John shook his head. “God, I’m gonna sound like a love-sick teenager, here. It’s just that I’m out here with my parents, who are stupidly in love, and Harry and Clara, who have the most volatile relationship I’ve ever seen but it works for them and they’re happy - and I just wish I could have the two of you here as well. That’s all. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” Lestrade assured. “Have you been getting questions?”

“Yeah, but that’s to be expected. Never used to bother me, but now that I _do_ have someone - two someones - and can’t even tell anyone about it - well, now it bothers me. What about you?”

Lestrade laughed. “I was written off long ago as the friendly, bachelor uncle. Though I think my sister suspects something - she’s been making veiled inquiries.”

“Do you think you’ll tell her?”

“Maybe someday.” He could hear the shrug in Lestrade’s voice. “If I were to tell anyone, it’d be her. Dunno why I haven’t, honestly, ‘cause there’s no reason not to. It’s just - this is ours, you know? I like having that.”

“I never thought of it that way.” John scrubbed a hand through his hair and flopped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. “Heard from Sherlock at all?”

“Yeah, he texted me a few hours ago. Said he’d tried you but you never answered, so I was his backup in his fight against boredom.”

John snorted. “Well, I’d’ve answered if his texts weren’t so bloody cryptic. Something about chicken wings and the rate of decomposition. Who knew that was Sherlock-speak for ‘I miss you’?”

“Well, shoot him a text later. He won’t answer his phone, so don’t bother calling. And he’ll pretend to be miffed about you taking so long to get back to him, but secretly he’ll be thrilled.”

“You’re good at this stuff, you know? And I bloody live with the man.”

“Well, I’ve had years of practice de-coding him. You’ll catch on.”

“I suppose.” John passed a hand over his eyes. _God_ , was he tired. And it was barely eight. “How’s your niece?”

He heard Lestrade’s grin over the phone, and his heart leaped. What he wouldn’t give to see that lovely smile right now. ”She’s beautiful. Keeps begging for stories and snowball fights.”

“I’m sure your job makes for some wonderful bedtime tales,” John said dryly. 

“Actually, she’s just like her mother. Morbid fascination with bodies and crimes. I tried toning down the stories and she called me out on it - _Uncle Greg, wouldn’t a body left out in the sun for three days smell? And explode?_ ”

“Sounds like you’ve got a detective in the works, there,” John said with a smile. 

“Yeah, that’d make her mother pleased,” Lestrade said dryly. “Oh, hold on.”

There was a pause and a murmur of voices.

“I’m sorry, John, but I need to go,” Lestrade said apologetically when he came back on the line. 

“No problem. Thanks for the call.”

There was a pause. “I’m...glad you were able to take it. It was nice to talk to you, for a moment.”

John frowned, though he was touched. “We’ve gone days without speaking before.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade agreed. “But - well, this is a holiday about those important to us. And I’m without the two most -”

Lestrade stopped, and cleared his throat. “Anyway, it was good to talk to you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good to talk to you, too, Greg. See you tomorrow.”

\----

To: Sherlock Holmes  
From: Greg Lestrade

Subject: none

Sorry this email is so late, though you’re probably still up anyway. My sister let my niece stay up past her normal bedtime because it’s a holiday, and she demanded I tell her every story I could possibly come up with. She only just went to bed now. And I’d have called you, but I know you wouldn’t answer. So this will have to do.

Regarding that text of yours this afternoon - no, I don’t resent you or John or what it is that’s going on between the three of us. I don’t know where this is coming from, but you two have not kept me from having children. That ship sailed long before I even met you, and  I made peace with it a long time ago. I have my niece, who is wonderful, and I have the two of you. And, truthfully, I wouldn’t give up either of you for anything - including children. Got it?

-G

\----

 _  
Thank you for the email. -SH  
_

 _  
God, now you’re thanking me? What’s gotten into you?  
_

 _  
It was simply a question. And you and John appear to appreciate social niceties, hence the thank you. -SH  
_

 _Right, now I am worried._

 _  
You are always worried. - SH  
_

 _  
Fair enough. How was your Christmas Day?  
_

 _  
It was adequate. - SH  
_

 _  
Just that?  
_

 _  
Sherlock?  
_

 _  
There are others I would rather have spent the day with. - SH  
_

 _  
I miss you too, sunshine.  
_

\----

 _  
I never asked. Did you get any strange texts from Sherlock earlier today?  
_

 _  
Define weird.  
_

 _  
Good point. He wanted to know if I regretted us because it means I’ll never have children.  
_

 _  
Right, okay, that is weird. And no, I haven’t.  
_

 _  
Didn’t think so, but thought I’d check anyway. Also, gave me another excuse to say hello.  
_

 _  
I bloody love you. You know that, right?  
_

 _  
Love you, too, Johnny. See you tomorrow.  
_

 _  
\----  
_

 _  
Was your holiday to your liking? - SH  
_

 _  
It lived up to my expectations. Which, admittedly, weren’t high. Yours?  
_

 _  
I could say the same. - SH  
_

 _  
My train gets in at ten tomorrow morning. Will you be back by then?  
_

 _  
Yes. -SH  
_

 _  
Good. Looking forward to it.  
_

 _  
As am I, John. –SH  
_

\----

The train was packed on the way back to London. The entire country was on the move this morning, it seemed, everyone returning bleary eyed and exhausted and mostly happy from their holiday. John caught a cab home from the station, texting Lestrade to tell him not to bother with the traffic and just go straight to Baker Street. They arrived at virtually the same time, by some twist of fate, and Lestrade was parking as John got out of the cab and paid the fare. 

“G’morning,” Lestrade called to him, locking his car before descending upon John and wrapping him in a ridiculously exuberant hug - brotherly, it would look like to anyone watching. He then stooped and grabbed John’s bag, carrying it along with his own into Baker Street before John could even mount a protest.

“Ah, thanks,” John said, accepting his change from the cabbie and leaving a tip before hurrying after his lover. 

“Christ, I missed you,” Lestrade muttered, crowding John up against the wall once they were safely inside and burying his face in his neck. John chuckled. 

“It was only a few days,” he said, and Lestrade drew back to look at him, one eyebrow lifted in amusement. “Right, yeah, I missed you, too. C’mere.”

“When you two are quite done,” Sherlock’s voice echoed down the stairs, “I’d very much appreciate your presence in the flat.”

“Missed him, too,” John said as they broke apart. He rested his forehead against Lestrade’s, hands still digging into the front of his shirt. Lestrade sighed.

“You know what?” He pressed his lips to John’s forehead. “Me, too. Come on, let’s go say hi to the git.”

\----

Most days - most _hours_ \- Sherlock needed something to keep his mind busy. A puzzle, a case, an intriguing specimen, a good experiment - any and all would do. 

Sometimes, he needed quiet in order to think. 

Sometimes, he needed Lestrade’s hand on his shoulder to ground him. 

Sometimes, he needed John’s waspish temper to remind him when something was a Bit Not Good.

And every once in a while, he just needed to _relax_. 

Lestrade spotted the signs first that day after Christmas as they were all saying their hellos, and that in itself wasn’t entirely unexpected. He _had_ known the detective longer than John, and though the other two lived together he still had five years of experience to go on. Five years of Sherlock’s highs and lows; five years of his demons and brilliance. Lestrade had trained himself to wake at the sound of the softest whimper, and that came from the nights Sherlock had spent on his sofa while going through withdrawal. He found himself standing unconsciously closer to the detective than John when the three of them were in the same room, and it was nothing against John - Lestrade simply had grown used to being at the ready, casting a watchful eye over Sherlock, ready to catch him should he lose his footing. 

And Sherlock wasn’t good with being around people for extended periods of time, unless it was for the purposes of a case. It drained him, in addition to assaulting his senses and sending him into overload, because his genius came at a price. He couldn’t simply shut off his deductive powers; they worked all the time, every moment of every day, and crowds were hellish for him because he couldn’t stop _observing_. He couldn’t turn off the cataloging and memorizing and conclusions, even if he could delete them from his memory after the fact.

The constant observations wore him down, wrung him out, gave him terrible headaches. And so when Lestrade saw Sherlock’s face grow tighter as his partners chatted, saw how Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and mouth became pinched, he knew that the detective was in desperate need of recharging. 

“Sherlock, are you all right?” he asked quietly, breaking away from the conversation. John blinked at him, and then glanced sideways at his flatmate.

“Sherlock?”

Lestrade laid a hand on his shoulder, rubbing in gentle circles, and said softly, “We need to get that mind of yours quiet. Been a rough couple of days?”

Sherlock’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “No more so than usual.”

“Still.” Lestrade pushed himself to his feet, holding out a hand to Sherlock. John followed. “I think we could all use a rest anyhow, yeah? C’mon.”

Once upstairs, Lestrade drew the curtains as tightly as he could in order to block out all possible light while John shut the door and Sherlock stretched out in the center of the bed, folding his hands across his chest and crossing his legs at the ankles, looking as serene as his mind was not. Lestrade and John settled on either side of him, Lestrade already feeling exhaustion tugging at his senses now that he was giving his body permission to relax. He never slept well in beds that weren’t his own (or John’s), and that coupled with the daily stress brought on by his job and the heightened anxiety brought on by the holiday season had made for two restless nights. 

John had his hands in Sherlock’s hair and was rubbing gentle circles into his scalp. Lestrade rested an arm across his chest and covered his eyes with the other. Beside him, Sherlock’s breathing was beginning to even out. There wasn’t any one sure-fire method to ease Sherlock’s frantic mind, but sensory deprivation at least eased the strain. 

Lestrade followed Sherlock quickly into sleep. He roused two hours later when John left the bed, kissing them both and murmuring something about his blog. Sherlock was a warm weight against Lestrade’s side, head pillowed on his chest and arm wrapped around his torso. Lestrade tightened the arm he had around Sherlock’s shoulders and nosed the thick curls, breathing him in. 

Sherlock stirred and shifted, but didn’t move away. Lestrade dropped a kiss onto the top of his head and murmured, “D’you want to tell me what all that worry about children was about?”

“It occurred to me that I had never bothered to find out your preferences on the matter,” Sherlock said into his shirt, voice muffled by the fabric. “You spoke of your niece in the way I have found most parents speak of their children, and I would not want you...unhappy.”

“You make me happy. Very happy. You and John both.” Lestrade kissed him again. “I meant everything I said in that email. The notion had occurred, yes, but I would never give this up for it. I wouldn’t want to. And perhaps my niece is almost like a surrogate child; that’s more than enough for me. All right?”

Sherlock lifted his head, meeting Lestrade’s gaze warily, and the older man smiled.

“I promise, sunshine. This - you two - are my whole world.” He kissed Sherlock’s nose, and added, “Now, go back to sleep.”

And Sherlock, for once, returned his head to Lestrade’s chest and did as he was told. Lestrade followed soon after, sleep rushing up to meet his weary mind.

  
The rest of the afternoon passed in a lazy haze, most of it lost to sleep. The second time Lestrade woke he got up to go find John, leaving Sherlock to sleep off the rest of his overload. It was late afternoon by that point, and, feeling restless, they went for a walk and then to the shops, returning with ingredients for an impromptu dinner just as Sherlock was shuffling downstairs. 

“Better?” they asked him, and he nodded.

“Better.”

Dinner was uneventful which, considering they were cooking in what amounted to Sherlock’s personal laboratory, was actually quite the achievement. Sherlock collapsed on the sofa afterwards and dragged both of his companions with him. 

“You are _incredible_ ,” John said between laughs. “Honestly, I can’t get you to sleep during cases but two days at your mother’s and you’re ready to sleep for a week.”

“Have you _met_ my mother, John?” Sherlock said defensively. “If two days with her make me like this, what do you imagine they’d do to _you?”_

John conceded that this was a fair point. 

  
Lestrade helped John later on with the post-dinner clean-up while Sherlock disappeared into his old room, muttering about blowflies and decomposition rates and, oddly enough, rabbits. 

“You all right?” John asked him, handing him a stack of clean dishes to put away in one of the higher cupboards. 

“Hm?” Lestrade put the dishes away and then leaned back on the counter, rubbing his shoulder and arm. “Oh, yes, fine. Just - arm’s a bit sore.”

“Must be from all those snowball fights you got into over the holiday,” John teased. Lestrade grinned. 

“Yeah, must be. _Christ_ , I’m getting old for this stuff.”

“Not too old, I hope,” John said with a huff of laughter, making a grab for Lestrade’s arse as he passed. Lestrade snagged him around the middle and drew him in for a kiss. 

“Not bloody likely,” he murmured. 

Sherlock chose that moment to back come into the kitchen, sliding past his partners with a beaker in one hand and some microscope slides in the other. John glanced at him as he broke away from Lestrade, and then suppressed a smile. 

“Sherlock, you’ve got - here -” he said, plucking a few stray pieces of tinsel from Sherlock’s shoulder and hair. They must have come off the small tree John had decorated and stuck in a corner of the living room, probably latching onto Sherlock as he passed too close. John couldn’t suppress his grin then, and was relieved when Lestrade laughed out loud. Sherlock scowled at them both. 

“Those decorations are coming down _tomorrow_.”

“Oh, before I forget,” Lestrade said suddenly, squeezing John’s elbow and striding out into the living room, “I have something for the two of you.”

Sherlock and John obeyed his unspoken request and followed him out of the kitchen, and he beckoned them to sit on the sofa while he went over to his bag, pulling out a slim box. He then walked over to the sofa and perched on the low table in front of it, leaning forward over his legs. Sherlock sat up straight, intrigued; John leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, mirroring Lestrade. 

“I hope this isn’t too forward of me,” Lestrade said, running a finger along the edge of the box and shifting his gaze between the two of them, “but I’m forty-eight; I don’t have the time or patience to spend time waffling the way I could have at twenty-eight. And - well, I’m forty-eight. I know what I want.”

He lifted the cover off the box. “And I want you two, if you’ll have me.”

John passed a hand over his mouth to cover his surprise as he looked in the box. “Greg...”

Sherlock reached into the small box and plucked out one of its three identical contents - a silver ring. He turned it over in his hands, watching as the light caught the band. 

“Will you?” Lestrade asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, lifting his eyes to Lestrade’s before glancing sideways at his flatmate. “John?”

“Yes,” John said breathlessly. “Yes, of course - of course I would. God, Greg, you are - _unbelievable_.”

Lestrade’s shoulders relaxed, visibly relieved, and he gave a shaky laugh. John sprang forward, suddenly, and kissed him hard. 

“Did you think for a _second_ we’d say no?” he whispered as he drew away. Lestrade shrugged. 

“It’s purely sentimental, John. Symbolic. We can’t do anything legally; honestly, these have no meaning -”

“No,” John said, cutting him off abruptly. “No, they have _every_ meaning.”

“Thank you, Johnny,” Lestrade said earnestly. “I just - I don’t know what to call this, most days, or what to call you two - I just know that this is real, whatever it is. And I wanted to _do_ something to show it.”

He cleared his throat, swallowing hard, and nodded at Sherlock. “That one’s John’s, actually.”

Sherlock glanced at John, and then held out his hand. John hesitated a moment, and then offered his left for Sherlock to hold. The detective slipped the ring on the appropriate finger and then brushed his thumb over it. John kissed his brow; his eyelids; his nose.

“And this one’s Sherlock’s.” Lestrade plucked the smallest of the three and slipped it onto the detective’s slender hand; Sherlock offered him the beginnings of a cautious smile, and Lestrade pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. John reached over and took out the final ring.

“This one’s yours, then,” he said, turning it over thoughtfully, watching as it gleamed. Sherlock took Lestrade’s left hand in his right, offering it to John, who slipped it on until it fit snugly in the tan line that marked where his old one had been. 

Lestrade leaned forward, capturing John’s lips in a hungry kiss, hand coming up to rest along the side of his jaw. He broke away and did the same to Sherlock, one hand lingering on John’s knee while the other held onto the detective’s chin. 

“I love you,” someone whispered, and two others murmured the same in response. Their newly-banded fingers tangled together, and it was impossible to figure out where one of them ended and another began. 

Just as it should be.

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the fluffy ending, stop here. For a somewhat more angsty one, proceed to Part Three.


	3. Espirando

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> None of them imagined that this is how they would be ringing in the new year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Espirando_ : expiring; dying away.

Within a matter of hours, life returned to their version of normal. Lestrade had to cut his night at Baker Street short for a murder that got called in at three in the morning. John returned to the clinic the next day and Sherlock returned to his experiments and the decorations were packed away - except for the festive hat on the skull, which John removed but Sherlock replaced, saying that it suited the skull.

Lestrade wore his ring on a daily basis, with no one the wiser that it was a different band. John kept his on the same chain with his dog tags while Sherlock kept his in his former-bedroom-turned-lab, and the two of them wore them around the flat or when they were on excursions in places where they would not be recognized.

December drew to a close as their routines returned to normal, and the only pressing concern any of them had (well, the only pressing concern John and Lestrade had) was where and how they might ring in the new year.

\----

_Lestrade, I have the results from the experiment. I need to speak to you immediately. - SH_

_This is no time to ignore your mobile. -SH_

_I thought this case was of the utmost importance. Don’t make me resort to calling Donovan. -SH_

_\----_

“Hello, brother.”

“What do you want, Mycroft? I’m busy.”

“Yes, believe it or not, that  _is_ why I’m calling. Your Detective Inspector... _friend_  is not answering his phone because he’s in hospital. I suggest you go to him immediately. Or at least stop texting him, as he will not be able to answer.”

\----

“Oh, John, you’ve had a call. It came in while you were in there with Mrs. Smith. Maggie just left me this note.”

“Thanks Sarah. Who was it from?”

“Um, looks like...it was Sherlock. And he says that you need to turn on your mobile.”

“Bugger. Wonder what he’s gotten himself into this time.”

\----

_Text me immediately - SH_

_Sorry, Sherlock. Was with a patient. What’s happened?_

_Lestrade is in hospital. Heart attack. Resting right now, but your presence would be appreciated. -SH_

_Where?_

_St. Thomas’ - SH_

_I’ll be there._

_Haste would be preferred. - SH_

_We need you. - SH_

_\----_

“Sherlock,” John breathed as he slipped into the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. The detective started at the noise, intent as he had been at studying Lestrade’s face, and relaxed when he saw who it was. “Has he woken up at all?”

Sherlock shook his head. He was standing by the side of the bed, hands tucked into the pockets of his great coat, collar popped and shielding part of his face as though there was a draft in the room. John strode over to the bed and tugged the dividing curtain around it, shielding them from view.

Behind the safety of the curtain, John bent over Lestrade’s prone form and pressed his lips to the papery cheek. He was the shade of white that John was accustomed to seeing only on Sherlock, and his breaths were shallow but warm against John’s cheek. His heart thundered steadily against John’s fingertips as he found the pulse-point on Lestrade’s wrist, and it was a temporary relief.

“...fine,” Sherlock was saying. John blinked.

“Sorry. What was that?”

“He was fine,” Sherlock repeated. He was still staring blankly at Lestrade. “Just three days ago, he was fine.”

“These things happen,” John said. “You know that. It...comes without warning, sometimes. You have to admit, he doesn’t have the healthiest lifestyle, and he’s older than we are. Plus, his family history -”

John broke off abruptly. He sounded like a doctor.

 _I am a doctor_.

_Not to him._

“He’s going to be fine,” John said to the room, though no one had said anything. “And I suppose this solves one thing.”

“What?”

“The question of where to spend New Year's.” John tried to chuckle, but it skittered wildly up the scale and he clamped down on it as best he could, passing a hand over his mouth. “Christ.”

Sherlock rested a hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, and said nothing.

“What happened?” John said finally. “Were you with him?”

Sherlock shook his head, jaw tight. “No. He was alone. It was before work, and he was still getting ready in his flat. Mycroft’s  _surveillance_  saw it happen.”

He swallowed hard. “That is why he’s still alive. That  _damned_ surveillance.”

John slipped an arm around his waist. Sherlock shook his head.

“I hate that he does that, John. I’ve tried to keep you and Lestrade from his cameras and his people. I’ve pulled favors and negotiated deals and tried to give you the privacy you deserve. And  _still_ it isn’t enough. And yet...and yet without that surveillance Lestrade would be dead right now. I don’t -”

He broke off, and John finally spoke.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t worry about us, okay? We know what getting involved with you would entail - the British Government comes along as part of the package. It’s frustrating, yes, but Mycroft does have your best interests at heart, whether you believe it or not. And if sacrificing my privacy means that you and Greg remain safe - that’s more than worth it.”

John nodded at Lestrade, and continued, “He’s alive right now because of your brother. I think we owe Mycroft one, don’t you? If he wants to keep watching us - fine.”

Sherlock gave a brisk nod, and John pressed a kiss to his temple.

“I’m gonna go track down his doctor and get us some more information. Will you be all right?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock said. John rubbed his arm.

“Just - sit with him. So he knows he’s not alone.”

“He’s unconscious.”

“I know, just - it’d make me feel better. I’ll be right back.”

He paused long enough to press his lips to Lestrade’s forehead, and then left the room.

\----

Sherlock sat by the side of Lestrade’s bed, watching the rise and fall of his chest, comparing it to the information he had stored on his hard drive from all the nights he had spent watching, memorizing, committing to memory his partners’ breathing patterns. Lestrade’s was shallower today than Sherlock had ever had chance to see, and he made note of it. He ran the data against all the information he had stored in his brain about breathing, and concluded that the breaths were not shallow to the point of being detrimental to his health. Not yet, at least.

He reached out a hand and pressed it to Lestrade’s wrist, the same as John had done, and compared Lestrade’s heartbeat now with the one he had on file. Steady and sure, if a bit weak. It was little different from the heartbeats he had memorized, and gave no indication that the organ had nearly betrayed its owner several hours before.

His fingers tightened on Lestrade’s wrist.

Lestrade’s eyelids fluttered.

\----

John’s mobile beeped, and he fished it out of his pocket.

_Lestrade waking._

“Oh,” he said to the doctor he had been speaking with, surprised. “Your patient’s awake.”

There were already two nurses in the room when John entered again, the doctor on his heels, and he stood out of the way with Sherlock while the three fussed over Lestrade, coaxing verbal answers out of him and checking his vitals. When at last the activity died down and the staff cleared out, John drew the divider again and was finally able to survey Lestrade for himself.

“How d’you feel, love?” he asked very softly, sitting on the side of the bed and carding his fingers through Lestrade’s mussed hair. Brown eyes stared back at his, blurred with exhaustion and medication, but Lestrade was able to muster a soft, “Fine,” in response.

“Gave us a scare,” John said, attempting a weak smile.

“Jus’...keeping you on your toes,” Lestrade whispered.

“I can think of better ways to accomplish that,” Sherlock put in, and Lestrade gave half a smile.

“I’ll come up...with something better next time.”

“There won’t  _be_ a next time,” Sherlock said firmly, and the smile melted from Lestrade’s face.

“No, of course not,” he said softly. “I’m sorry to...have scared you two.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” John said. “We couldn’t have predicted this.”

He reached for Lestrade’s hand as Sherlock, ever on the alert, finally gave in and sank onto the bed as well, sitting on Lestrade’s other side.

“They think you’ll be able to come home in about three to five days,” John told him. “We’ll have to talk at some point about some lifestyle choices to prevent this from happening again. Quitting smoking - for good - is one of them.”

“Knew...you were going to say that,” Lestrade whispered, lips twisting into a grin. “All right.”

“Can we get you anything?”

“No,” Lestrade said, shaking his head. “m’just gonna rest for a bit.”

“Okay,” John whispered thickly, rubbing his hand. “Yeah, of course, you do that. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

\----

They passed the rest of the day in this manner, with Sherlock and John keeping watch over Lestrade. At one point John left to fetch Lestrade some items from his flat; at another, Sherlock left to get their laptops from Baker Street and sat by the bed conducting research for a private case. John pretended to work on paperwork for the clinic, but his attention kept straying to Lestrade’s too-still form.

Donovan stopped by early in the evening, breaking them out of the bubble of comfort they had settled into. John quickly withdrew his hand from Lestrade’s at the sound of the door opening and Sherlock pulled his feet away from where they had been resting on the bed, tangled snugly with Lestrade’s own. They subconsciously moved their chairs back from the bed and straightened their spines and adopted the personas they were used to wearing around the Yarders and the rest of the outside world. 

“Fancy seeing you here, Freak,” she greeted as Sherlock and John got to their feet. Her words lacked their usual bite, though, and she looked worn. Sherlock’s retort was equally weak.

“We had business to discuss,” he said simply.

“He’s laid up with a life-threatening illness and you’re still forcing him to work. Typical. Dunno why he puts up with you, honestly,” she said as she took John’s chair, pulling it up to Lestrade’s side. He was asleep; she touched his shoulder gently, eyes drawn to his lined face.

Sherlock said nothing to that, but John saw the lines around his mouth tighten and his eyes flickered to the floor. He tugged on Sherlock's sleeve, and they left the room.

“You know better than to listen to her, right?” John said softly as he pulled Sherlock into an empty alcove one corridor away. The hallway was deserted, and the tiny jut in the wall was shadowed. He took advantage of the concealing darkness and gripped Sherlock’s hand. “He doesn’t just  _put up with_ you. He loves you deeply.”

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured. “I know.”

“And he knows you feel the same,” John added, when the tightness around Sherlock’s eyes and mouth didn’t fade. “Sally’s comments aren’t a reflection on our…relationship.”

He gave a quiet huff of laughter. “Just means we’re really good actors, is all. And we have to be.”

“I know.” Sherlock tipped his head forward until his forehead was resting against John’s. “I simply wish…”

“Yeah,” John answered the unfinished sentence. “I wish, too. C   
ome on. Let’s go back to him.”

\----

The clock inched past dinnertime, and still they remained at Lestrade’s side. They would have to leave, soon, if for no other reason than the fact that Sherlock looked about ready to keel over and John was sure he wasn’t too far behind. But they ignored the clock as much as they were able, for having had a scare in which one of their own was nearly lost, they unconsciously drew closer to him and could not bring themselves to leave his side for very long.

The seconds ticked by, regardless.

\----

It was past nine when John, restless from having been sitting so long and with the residual stress of the afternoon, got up from his seat and told his companions he was going for a walk. He strolled through the harsh corridors of the hospital and ducked outside for some air, ignoring the bitter chill of the night. Christmas decorations were still hung on the nurses’ desk in the waiting room, and outside impatient revelers were already setting off small fireworks displays – a full day early.

He went in search of coffee, and poured two cups. Sherlock would probably turn his nose up at the drink, but John needed to do  _something_. He wasn’t good with just sitting and waiting, and there was nothing they could do for Lestrade until he healed enough on his own to be able to come home.

John eased open the door to Lestrade’s room again carefully, balancing the cups of hot liquid in his hands, and let it fall closed behind him. He ducked around the privacy curtain and paused at the sight that met his eyes. Sherlock was sitting now, his head pillowed in his arms and resting on the mattress near Lestrade’s hips. Lestrade, eyes closed, was resting a hand on Sherlock’s head and lightly stroking the dark curls. It was a tender scene, and one John didn’t often see between the two of them. They weren’t particularly demonstrative men, especially not in so public a place, and that spoke volumes to Sherlock’s inner distress.

He realized, then, just how much he didn’t know about their past. There were five years he wasn’t privy to; five years of shared history and strengthening bonds. It was hard, even now, to define just what his two partners were in relation to one another. It shifted, depending on the day and the mood of the two men. Lestrade came off often enough as paternal toward Sherlock, but that hardly held up during the times when they were all in bed together and John was watching the other two trade lazy, half-awake kisses as the sun started to make itself known on the horizon.

Lestrade blinked open his eyes and gave a slow smile when he noticed John standing there. John tried to return it, but his breath caught as his gaze roved over his partner, taking in the sallow skin and the sunken eyes; the prominent lines around his mouth and under his eyes.

He’d never thought of Lestrade as old before.

“You’re staring, John,” Lestrade said softly, snapping him out of his daze.

“Right, yeah, sorry. Just...lot on my mind.” John set Sherlock’s cup on the wheeled table at the foot of Lestrade’s bed and sat down in a chair opposite his flatmate. Lestrade let his hand come to rest on the back of Sherlock’s neck - warm, steady - and John took his other one.

“Are you all right?” Lestrade asked.

“You’re asking  _me_?”

“Yes,” Lestrade said simply. “Sherlock’s not the only one I worry about, you know.”

“I wasn’t,” John admitted. “I was scared. But I’m all right, now.”

Lestrade nodded and squeezed his hand.

“Oh, God, I never asked,” John said suddenly. “Did you want us to call someone for you? Your sister, or anyone? It’s just - Sherlock’s your emergency contact, and we didn’t tell anyone apart from the Yard because we didn’t know...well...”

He trailed off, uncertain, because their reasons for not calling anyone else, while not voiced, suddenly made themselves plain in his mind and caught him off-guard by just how selfish they were. They hadn’t called Lestrade’s sister because doing so would have necessitated either outing the three of them to her or forcing them into the background as the biological family swept in and took over. They’d have been delegated to the category of  _friendship_ , as though that in itself were less important than family. And  _friendship_  was such an inadequate term, just like  _lovers_ and  _partners_ weren’t quite accurate either. It made John ill, sometimes, to think that what they had was viewed as something less by everyone around them. Or would be, if anyone knew about it.

Lestrade touched his knee lightly. “No, John, you did the right thing. I wouldn’t want her to have worried unnecessarily. I'll talk to her in the morning.”

“But if -” John stopped abruptly, appalled at what he had been about to say.

“If I’d died?” Lestrade supplied. “If they hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye?”

He shook his head. “I admit that I wouldn’t want to ever deny them that right. We may not be the closest of siblings, but we get along all right. And, in light of this, the three of us should all probably sit down sometime soon and figure out just who to call and what to do if -  _when_ \- something like this happens again. But John,” Lestrade grabbed for his hand again; John held on tight, “I’d’ve had you and Sherlock here. And, callous as it may sound, that would’ve been more important to me. And you know that if you’d called her, then  _you_ two wouldn’t have had a proper goodbye.”

John swallowed hard. “Yeah. Yeah, I know, but they’re your family and -”

“You’re my family, too,” Lestrade said softly. “Don’t forget that.”

John nodded stiffly around the lump in his throat, and tightened his grip on Lestrade’s hand.

\----

“You all right?” John asked when Lestrade was sleeping again. Sherlock had been examining Lestrade’s face since waking again, leaning forward in his chair with his elbows on his knees and his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

“Are you?”

John shook his head, but couldn’t say himself whether it was an answer or an avoidance of the question.

“It’s too soon for this,” Sherlock said finally. “We’ve only had a year.”

He scrubbed a hand through his hair and murmured something in French.

“This isn’t the end,” John said, though Lord only knew he’d been having the same thoughts. “He’s going to be fine.”

“This time,” Sherlock pointed out.

“It could be any one of us. You know that as well as I do. How many times have you landed yourself in hospital over the past two years?” John rubbed his bare ring finger absently. “Besides, you’re the one who’s always telling us not to think about the things that didn’t happen, only the things that did.”

“Yes, but this  _will_ happen. We might not know when, or how, but it  _will happen_. And not knowing - not being prepared - is infuriating.”

“That’s just how it is, Sherlock,” John said wearily.

He heard Sherlock swallow. “And what happens if someday he – if someday one of us is unable to…to continue as we have been?”

“We'd take care of him,” John answered promptly. “We’d move him into 221c if we had to, or upstairs into your old room. Or, hell, we'd sell Baker Street and move to the country together so we could better care for him. Same thing if something happened to you or to me. We’re in it for the long haul, Sherlock. That means pulling together when times are rough. Right?" 

Sherlock didn't respond, and after a moment John dared to ask, “Do you regret it?”

“I may be a genius, John,” Sherlock sighed, “but that does not mean I am able to read minds. You'll have to be more specific.”

“I mean, regret him. Us.” John waved a vague hand. “This.”

“Why would I?”

John watched as Lestrade’s chest gently rose and fell with each of his shallow breaths, considering his words. “Because he’s eighteen years older than you, and today shouldn’t have happened. Because it could happen again. Because any one of us could get ill, or badly injured. There are a myriad ways for it to end; this is just one.”

He lifted heavy eyes to Sherlock’s. “Because one day one of us isn’t going to wake up, and two of us will be left behind. And it’ll    
_hurt_   
, Sherlock.”

“This is true,” Sherlock said quietly. A crease appeared between his brows. “I confess, I’ve been considering that very question all afternoon. I’ve been...analyzing all the events that might have led us here, to see if I might have acted differently. If I    
_should_   
have acted differently, and thus prevented this outcome; prevented this pain now, and the pain to come.”

“And?” John prodded.

Sherlock shook his head. “And it was always going to lead to this, John. To us. I wouldn’t have acted any differently and even if I had, our current relationship would still be the result.”

“Sounds a bit like fate, there,” John murmured, trying to smile. “Not really something you buy into, yeah?”

“It’s not fate; it’s simply fact,” Sherlock countered. “But to answer your question - no.”

He reached out a hand and brushed light fingertips over the back of Lestrade’s hand. “No, I don’t regret this, even knowing what the future will bring.”

“Good,” John said, relieved. “Me neither. Worth it, I like to think.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “Yes, very much so.”

John got to his feet and went around to the other side of the bed.

“Come on,” he said, placing a hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. “Let’s go get some sleep. He’s not going to wake for a while, and we're of little use to him like this."

\----

They returned the next day. John had taken an absence from the surgery, citing a family emergency, and while Sherlock continued to work, it was clear that he couldn’t give his cases his full attention.

Morning melted into afternoon, and Lestrade tried several times to send his partners home. They would have none of it.

“Greg,” John said firmly. “It’s New Year's Eve, and you’re in hospital. We’re not going anywhere.”

John brought his laptop out later on and typed, outlining a case Sherlock had taken on just before Christmas.

Sherlock read and scowled and brooded, snapping at the doctors and nurses who came to check on Lestrade.

“Calm down,” Lestrade ordered gently after the latest doctor left the room, looking distinctly cowed. He reached for Sherlock’s hand as John took a discreet look around the divider to ensure they were alone. “They’re only trying to help. I’d be dead if not for them. Okay?”

“None of this is okay,” Sherlock said tightly.

“Sherlock.” Lestrade forced an edge into his voice, though he truly didn’t feel it. “Please.”

Sherlock’s mouth thinned, but he gave a jerky nod.

Lestrade slept for a while; when he awoke, John was slumped over, head resting near Lestrade’s hand on the mattress, fast asleep. Sherlock was awake and on his laptop, but he closed it when he noticed Lestrade’s eyes on him.

“Are you in need of something?” he asked. Lestrade told him that water sounded wonderful, and Sherlock returned with two cups. He hovered while Lestrade drank, which the DI would find irritating under normal circumstances - but these weren’t normal circumstances, not by a long shot, and he allowed the coddling because Sherlock needed it.

Sherlock finally sat, and gazed at Lestrade over the rim of his own cup, taking him apart and putting him back together; stripping him bare and building him up again in little more than a flick of his eyes. He reached out a hand and placed it on Lestrade’s chest, positioned just over his heart, feeling its steady rhythm through the fabric of the hospital gown.

“Gregory,” he murmured.

“I’m here,” Lestrade whispered. “Still here. We still have time.”

He brought up his left hand and curled it around Sherlock’s, pressing it even closer, until he imagined the blood was pounding against Sherlock’s hand.

“Focus on that. Not on what can’t be changed _._ ”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I know that, too.”

“Good.” Lestrade glanced at the clock, and was startled to discover that hours had passed without his even realizing it.

He brought Sherlock’s knuckles to his lips and threaded thick fingers through John’s hair. Outside, lights exploded in the sky and bells started to chime.

It was a new year.


End file.
